


jesus christ that's a pretty face

by peppermintflower (dragonet)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Depression, Domestic Violence, Don't Do These Things, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mild Smut, References to Drugs, Smoking, Smut, Someone Is Nasty To Isaac, Violence, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonet/pseuds/peppermintflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the kind you'd find on someone I could save</p>
            </blockquote>





	jesus christ that's a pretty face

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Haaaaa. I don't know what this is about I wrote it in one sitting please don't judge me
> 
> Actually feel free to judge in the comments box. I welcome judge comments.

 

Derek would kill for the kid in the flat across the street, with that ring through his septum and knuckledusters gleefully hidden behind his back. He has dreams about the smell of gasoline and blood. He finds himself contemplating long square-ended fingers and silver studs and bitten nails. He wants to pin that lithe broad-boned body down and make him moan.

Yes, Derek would do anything for that kid, if only he asked.

 

He figures out that if he sits out on the fire escape, he can hear into the flat if they’ve left the door to their balcony open or he can spy on them if they’re outside, and he refuses to admit it’s creepy. He never looks at them while he pegs his laundry out as slowly as possible.

One day the kid comes out onto the balcony wearing a huge jacket lined with sheepskin, a cigarette in one hand and the flare of the lighter is a supernova in the fog.

“Stiles!” one of the other kids shouts through the open door. “You promised you’d stop!”

“Just one more, Scotty boy,” the kid grins, executing a perfect smoke ring smugly.

He catches Derek watching over his wet t-shirts and takes a deep drag and he glares right into Derek’s eyes.

Derek comes that night squirming on three of his own fingers, biting his duvet against the name that wants to spill past his lips.

 

At 3am Derek is woken by shouting and breaking glass. He staggers out of bed swearing, tangling one leg in the sheets and hopping to avoid falling on his face.

“-you’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?” a woman yelling shrilly.

“Just because I don’t wanna-” a man shouting just as loud but without heat, like he’s trying to be heard.

“Oh, fuck off! Just fuck off back to fucking California and poor martyred little Allison, fuck!”

“Kira!”

Derek cracks his window to see a leggy brunette dash out of the opposite building, closely pursued by shaggy-haired Scott. He glances up reflexively as he makes to go back inside, relieved that no one is getting robbed or worse, and jumps; Stiles is standing in his window staring at Derek.

But worse, there’s something new in Stiles’ sleep-mussed gaze, something Derek doesn’t need to see, an impenitent and unfounded desire.

He slams the window and pulls the blind.

And realises he was sleeping naked.

 

The next time Derek is woken by breaking glass and the taste of something wrong, he doesn’t bother with such a spectacular exit from bed. He yawns and scratches his stomach, wanders over to his window and freezes.

Three shadows like coyotes circling prey, and Stiles standing in the streetlight’s spotlight with a cigarette still dangling between thumb and forefinger and light glittering on his septum ring, holding his bag protectively to his chest.

There is no noise. Derek can’t hear a word anyone is saying. He tries to shimmy the window open without making a sound but it always squeaks a quarter of the way up.

He watches helplessly as one of them gets right up in Stiles’ face, and catches faintly the words,

“-give us what we want and you might even walk away.”

Derek sees it too fast, replays it in slow-mo, as Stiles flicks his butt in the guy’s face and brings his arm around in a precise swipe, the blackjack meeting the would-be mugger right under the chin and sending him reeling back. And they all run and Stiles lights another cigarette and smokes it to the filter, treads it out in the gutter and goes inside, and Derek is still standing there with his window a quarter way up.

 

Isaac calls, a hoarse voice racing down wires half a continent away. He cries while Derek listens and feels inadequate and by the time he hangs up, he has a one-way plane ticket to New York and the number of a long-distance haulage company.

On a rainy midweek day, Derek helps the delivery men unload Isaac’s belongings, a pitiful exercise.

Since Derek picked him up from JFK, Isaac’s been a mumbling zombie wrapped in blankets, constantly requesting ice cream and cuddles. On the third day, Derek put his foot down about the endless heavy metal blasting from the TV and introduced Isaac to the varied delights of HBO.

He doesn’t even have any clothes, just what he arrived in.

Derek glances up as he waves the delivery men off and is unsurprised to see Scott, Kira and Stiles hanging over the edge of their balcony, passing a complex joint between them. Kira and Scott jump when he catches them but Stiles just stares and breathes smoke into the downpour.

 

Isaac is making pancakes. Derek yawns and combs his fingers through his hair while he waits for the coffee machine. The quiet sunlit equilibrium is only disturbed by a baby crying on the floor below and the endless rush of the city outside the window.

“Is this done?” Isaac asks. Derek peers over his shoulder.

“Another minute.”

There’s a naked woman on Stiles’ balcony.

On second glance she’s actually wearing a pair of panties, but first glance was enough to make Derek choke on his coffee. She’s lean and tall and caramel-blonde, full of sharp angles and a vicious smile. She’s standing nearly naked on a third-floor balcony in the fishbowl of New York.

“Does this happen often?” Isaac asks with interest.

 

The third time Derek is woken by breaking glass and yelling, he rolls over and groans. Isaac makes an unhappy noise and snuggles into the warm hollow left behind. He needs so much from Derek.

Stiles and his girlfriend are fighting half-dressed in the street. Honest-to-God fighting, with fists and blood and occasional swearing. She has a split lip; his eyebrow is cut from her rings and blood pours down around his piercing.

Derek wonders absently if he ought to call the police.

He spots Scott peering down into the street and several other faces at windows in the building. Scott’s chewing his lip but he doesn’t look anxious. He catches Derek’s eye briefly.

The girl pulls a knife, a cold switchback too long to be legal, flipping it expertly. Stiles steps back a moment. He doesn’t break eye contact and his left hand goes into his pocket and comes out sheathed in his silver knuckledusters.

A standoff of Ruby Ridge proportions seems certain, with equally undesirable outcomes.

Then the girl launches herself like a shuttle and Derek tenses, thinking one or both of them will die, but Stiles catches her easily and they’re kissing savagely, her legs around his waist and Stiles flips off the whole street as he carries her inside.

Derek never sees her again.

 

Isaac needs a new hobby so Derek enrols him in a boxing class and an art class and tells him not to worry about getting a job, not yet; next year we’ll see about college, okay?

Derek’s hobby is drinking.

After the caramel girl, there is a leonine boy called Danny from Scott’s lacrosse team. Derek heard them talking about him long before he ever appeared. He’s rangy and sweet-eyed and slouches with his hands in his pockets. Derek is ridiculous for being jealous.

Once, home alone trying out a hoisin duck recipe Boyd and Erica requested for Friday night, he sees Stiles and Danny making out on the couch through the glass balcony door. He stares for an eternal second at fingers, long fingers twined in Stiles’ outgrown hair and the sweet-hot clench of Stiles’ ass as he grinds down, a brown hand gripping at the waist of his pants and yanking impatiently, the ripple of Stiles’ back as he shudders, and Derek rips his eyes away to find the duck burnt to the pan.

He turns the heat off and only just gets out of sight before he’s got his hand down his pants, hand just this side of too tight, and he’s coming dizzily to the thought of swollen red lips and white cotton boxers wet with come.

 

Isaac has made a friend and his name is Jackson, Isaac calls him a cunt but smiles even as he’s forming the word.

Jackson lives in Manhattan and he has a bar in his flat and he drives a Porsche but he also has a Mustang and his father is unbelievably rich and he has a hot tub in his bathroom and he’s unbelievably good-looking and did Isaac mention unbelievably rich? Derek is not jealous.

Derek thinks the sky is beautiful with red light pollution ricocheting off the clouds like flak. He tries to unlock the porch door and drops his keys in a puddle.

“Whoa,” someone laughs all melodic and thick, weed smoke and gasoline catching in Derek’s nose as skinny fingers snatch the keys up. “Steady there, big guy. You okay?”

Stiles’ eyes are narrow and brown because Derek can’t think of any better words to describe them.

“Come on,” Stiles sighs and hooks his shoulder under Derek’s arm. Thoughtlessly, Derek leans on him but Stiles doesn’t stagger and Derek doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

“You’re totally out of it,” Stiles mutters as he drags Derek up the last flight of stairs. Derek is busy cataloguing the heat of his body and doesn’t reply until he’s on the couch and by then it’s too late because Stiles is gone.

 

Turns out Jackson is a cunt without the smile and Isaac is crying again, stroking the raised curves of a new tattoo on Derek’s bicep without realising he’s doing it. The apartment is dark by day and night, there is nothing but fro-yo in the freezer, Derek does the laundry at 2am and lets Isaac wear his t-shirts, curled in bed like a damaged bird.

On Tuesday Stiles is hit by a taxi.

Derek is taking the trash out and he sees it all in horrific quick detail, the thump of flesh and screaming metal, the graceful arch of Stiles’ neck seven feet or more off the ground, the unforgiving smack of his side and skull into the tarmac. And the cataleptic slice of his eyes only just showing seem to accuse Derek of everything.

Scott is there before Derek can move, hands quivering like lost butterflies, shouting for the taxi driver to call an ambulance, shouting for Stiles to wake up.

 

Isaac lies in bed in the apartment and Stiles lies in bed in the hospital and Derek paces the streets because he doesn’t know what else to do. Boyd sits with Isaac while Erica is at work and Erica sits with Isaac when Boyd is at work and Derek spends hours searching for a brand of cigarette that smells right.

Scott stands on the balcony with fatigue underneath his eyes and Stiles is still not home.

Derek rubs the back of his neck and asks Scott which hospital Stiles is in.

Scott asks how Derek’s boyfriend is and blushes at Derek’s confusion, stammering, “sorry dude, I’m sorry, uh, we just all assumed, sorry-” before bolting.

Isaac holds his jacket and goes with Erica to get them coffee. Derek watches Stiles sleeping, the hematoma galaxies visible on his forearms and Derek wants to kiss every one, wants his lips to be an eraser for pain. As he puts his hand on the door Stiles turns his head on the pillow and mumbles, “Sc’tt.”

Stiles’s septum ring is gone.

Derek grips Erica’s hand and she doesn’t mention it, just hands over a coffee and drives them home, curls around him and Isaac like a tigress and growls every time they shift.

 

Isaac and Derek spend a week watching daytime TV in bed. Isaac cries on and off in a tired sort of way. He never stopped wearing Derek’s clothes, today swamped in a Yankees hoodie and Laura’s pink fluffy socks. Derek hums old rock songs into his hair.

They ignore the first knock but Isaac grumbles when it comes again, a tentative three taps on the front door. Derek slides out from under him and passes him a pillow to hug.

Stiles is outside balanced on crutches. He looks caught out when Derek opens the door, knocked unsteady in more ways than one.

“Hi,” Derek blurts before he can stop himself.

“Hey,” Stiles answers, running a hand through his hair and nearly overbalancing. “Er – this is weird. This is really weird, but I need to say this, because I nearly died a couple weeks ago and hey, I figure when’s a better time? Life is fragile and all that shit. So, er – I think you’re wicked hot and I want to take you out for milkshakes and learn which flavour you like best and I want – I want to know _everything,_ and I don’t even know your name. And also, oh my god, that guy isn’t actually your boyfriend is he? Because this could be really fucking awkward.”

The only thing Derek can think to say is, “I’m Derek.”

Stiles blinks. “So uh – that wasn’t a yes or a no?”

“Yes,” Derek says blankly. “Er. Yes.”

 

Stiles dips his fries in Derek’s strawberry milkshake and it’s disgusting but Derek wants to lick it out of his mouth words and all.

They decide to take it slow because of Stiles’ fractured knee.

They decide fuck it, we’re not taking it slow.

Stiles locks Scott out of the flat and tells him to go across the road and introduce himself to Isaac. Scott complains and threatens to sue but five minutes later they see him and Isaac making pancakes in Derek’s kitchen.

Stiles wriggles and cries out when Derek eats him out shallow and hot and sloppy, gripping Derek’s hair and nearly crying because he can’t move how he wants with his injuries, screaming when Derek tongue-fucks him deep and delicious. But when Derek props Stiles’ knees carefully on his shoulder and sinks all the way to the hilt in one thrust, Stiles goes completely quiet and his eyes screw shut and his bottom lip gets caught between his teeth. And when Derek starts moving, he’s silent but for these little ‘ah, ah, ah’ noises which send unbearable desire through Derek’s abdomen.

And when they’re both panting, blind-eyed in the wake of too much pleasure, Stiles catches up Derek’s hand and presses a kiss right to the centre of his palm.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Jesus' by Brand New, a truly depressing and excellent song


End file.
